That was their first home evening, and the commencement of a long term of domestic felicity. Each tried to please the other, having discovered that such is the foundation, with sincere affection, of conjugal felicity. They learned the important truth, that much as we may love society and our fellows, and though we may occasionally indulge in outdoor pleasures, a husband and wife must trust to each other for all real joy and happiness. Monsieur and Madame Richard, by a fortunate accident, found out all this before it was too late, and ever remembered, with passionate delight, the landmark of their conjugal joy, the anniversary they ever named as "Our Holiday.' THE BLUES. FEW people, we suppose, live in the world, who have not at some time or another been in the "Blues." We do not mean of course by that term, a certain aristocratic regiment of cavalry, which in military circles is known by that title; but a peculiar sort of melancholy which goes by that name, or rather by a longer and less polite one, to wit, "the Blue Devils," which has been abbreviated to suit ears polite. It seems strange that blue is associated in phraseology with melancholy. The colour of the vault of heaven, one would think to be anything but a companion for miserable feelings. The blue, too, belongs to truth and charity, as an emblem; but we suppose the fact is, that many talk analogically, without knowing it. Blue is the cold colour, and the inhabitants of the north feel cold as an evil, just as those of the tropics do heat. That is the temperature with which they have to combat for their own preservation, and thus it is that our poets have written of "cold grief" and "cold despair," and the colour of cold-blue-has been mixed up in our phraseology with melancholy. It would be an interesting subject for the philologist to investigate how far climate and local position form the idioms of a race; but that is far too scientific a matter for us to touch upon, in such a paper as the present. It would be more in keeping with our vein, to tell our readers what they have often seen; that the mendicant at night, hovering near the chemist's window, shows his practical association of blue and misery, by the care which he takes to stand in the rays of light which pass through the gigantic blue bottle there. He knows full well,-the cunning rogue !-that the red would make him look as jolly as a beef-eater. The green and yellow, kindred colours to blue, serve his purpose better; but the blue itself casts the deepest shade of misery over his features, and draws the most halfpence from the pockets of the benevolent. Whatever may be the analogical meaning of the term, certain it is that the blue devils are accounted ill spirits, and very disagreeable things. To some they come only occasionally, to others they form a permanent source of misery, and by all they are dreaded as an evil. Indeed, those who have experienced such disorders, generally shrink from them more sensitively than from physical pain; and the healers of the body, from the time that Shakspere made Lady Macbeth's physician asked whether he could "minister to a mind diseased," have been more puzzled with them than with substantial ailments; yet as they are more or less troublesome to all, we suppose that notwithstanding their unpleasantness, they serve some good purpose in nature. The most singular thing about them, perhaps, is the mystery which attends their coming and going. We may at this moment be radiant with joy, basking in the sunshine of existence, and by the next minute, like a cold cloud stealing silently over the bright warm sun, the blue devils may draw their film over the mind, and all is shade. What is it brings them into the mind? They do not walk in the footsteps of memory, for memories, however sad, are tender, and we willingly cherish them, while the blue devils are an unmitigated unpleasantness. They do not ride in the chariot of thought, for they have nothing thoughtful about them. They are not in any degree allied to reflection, -in fact they prevent us from thinking. We are simply passively miserable under the infliction of these malicious mental sprites. We are "hipped as a man of the world would say; "low," as washerwoman would observe; "down in the mouth," as a coalheaver would remark; or "desponding," as the young lady who reads romances, would lispingly suggest; but we do not at such times think. It is plain, then, that the blue devils are not thoughtful devils; we suppose few devils are, for if they did think, their wretched condition would so tell upon them, that they would be more miserable than even blue devils usually are. a Well! it is very easy to say what a thing is not; so easy, that every novice who tries his hand at description is pretty sure to do so negatively. But that is by no means a satisfactory mode of dealing with a subject; we want to know, not what is not, but what is. What are the blues, then, and where do they come from? Is it possible they come from the Red Sea, which of old was the popular receptacle for all evil spirits? We could try to "call them from the vasty deep," like Glendower, did we not agree with Hotspur, that they would not come. Besides, it seems quite clear that blue devils cannot come out of the Red Seathat would be cold coming out of heat. By the way, we wonder why the magicians and devilbanishers of old always banished evil spirits to the Red Sea. Why did they not transport them to the Dead Sea, and so rid our race of them for ever? that would have been a much more sensible proceeding. It is probable, however, that as death does not apply to spirits, only to bodies, the sea of death was no place for them. They had too much vitality in them to be finished in that way, and the blue devils have much too tenacious a hold over our pen, to be lost even in a sea of digression. If you were to ask a physician what the blues were, he would most probably tell you that they were a disease of the digestive organs. That when a man ate too much dinner, or did not eat any (not from want of will, but want of ability to do so), or when he devoured hot heavy late suppers, or took a glass or two of grog or a bottle of wine too much, he would be apt to have a next morning's visit from the blues; and probably if the said disciple of Esculapius happened to be a very practical or demonstrative person, or you happened to be a very good patient, or if he took any special interest in you, he would take down a diagram, and show you how the food was taken into the stomach, and how it was acted on by the gastric juice, and carried from one receptacle to another, and purified and converted into blood; and then he would explain how, when any of these processes were disturbed, the circulation of the blood grew languid, and the nerves ceased to act, and the brain grew torpid and dull, and the extremities cold, and cheerful thoughts fled, and the blue devils came in, to fill up the vacuum. All this is no doubt very scientific, but it is by no means satisfactory to us, first of all, because it does not explain all the cases of blues; and secondly, and that is a far more important objection, because it does not square with our theory, for of course we have a theory, or else we should have no business to write about the matter at all. We say it does not account for all the cases, because a bad coat, without the possibility of getting a better, is as apt to give a man the blues, as too much wine or meat, and an empty pocket is fully as efficacious in that way as an empty stomach. The physiological reason then does not settle the question; and besides, it seems to smack too much of that practical materialism which so rules the world. It is a gross way of accounting by physical laws for what we hold to be purely spiritual phenomena, and that we cannot bring our minds to. But our theory is free from all such objections. What is it? We will let you know in good time; but when one is propounding a grave philosophical and metaphysical fact, it must be done with all due deliberation and gravity. A congregation would not give twopence for a preacher who gabbled through his sermon with the speed of a mountebank, and the world would not value a sage who seemed to be in a hurry. Our theory then is, that neither full stomachs nor empty ones, neither shabby clothes nor unfurnished pockets, can be said to be the cause of blue devils. In spite of the proverb which tells us that "angels' visits are few and far between,' we are inclined to think that the very name given to these constant visitors of humanity is a misnomer; that to all who choose to make them so, they are guardianangels with angelic missions; and that the things which are said to be their causes, are but invitations for them to come. Devils, indeed! why does not the drunkard, under the influence of them, make good resolves, which resolves are not broken till the blues have passed away? Does not the prodigal whom they visit, while they stay, repent him of his follies, and resolve to be wiser for the future? Do they ever bring temptation with them, when temptation is powerless while they reign? and do they not always come oftenest to the worst,-to those who have committed the most errors of body or mind, to warn them of their wrong doing? Every fit of the blues is an opportunity for repentance, and those who are most in want of the opportunity, have it the most frequently. True, they inflict suffering and torment; but when did good ever come to the family of man except through pain or the desire to avoid it? These blue devils or angels,-for we presume that we have made it at least a moot point which they are,-are the ghosts of past follies and errors coming back to us to point out a better course, that is the purpose they serve in the economy of the world, and we would not have them, whether angels or devils, banished from this sphere, till the sins they spring from are banished too. If we could remember, whenever they visit us, to ask why they come, and where they come from, what was the exact nature of the invitation we had given, we should find them our benefactors. If they are angels we should then learn to cease to trouble them by our deviations from the path of right; and if us. they are devils, we shall do with them as the sages of old are said to have done with the spirits they subjugated, make them agents to work out benefits for There is a beautiful moral in those old fairy tales which tell us that evil spirits never come over our thresholds unless we invite them,-nay, even drag them in, and that when they do come, and we attempt to turn them to our use, they torment us only when we give them the chance. That points out how the blues are to be treated, and serves to show us how, if they are really devils, we can convert them into ministering angels. What we have to do, is, not to forget that when we do wrong, we send the blues a special invitation, and when they accept it, if we turn them to the best advantage, they will tend to keep us from doing wrong for the future. THE COLLECTOR. He has a fouth o' auld nic-nackets, And parritch-pats, and auld saut-backets, From Burns's Lines on Capt. Grose. COLLECTORS of curiosities are a queer race of beings, generally oddities, and sometimes originals. In their way, they are often useful, as the snappers-up of unconsidered trifles, and the patient accumulators of facts and specimens, which the historian or the philosopher works up into a story or a system. They are of many kinds and orders; you will know the geological collector by his hammer and blowpipe, and the botanical collector by his tin case slung across his shoulders. The collector of moths and butterflies carries with him a lot of little boxes, in which he immures his victims or specimens, and he skewers them through with a pin under his glass case, where, in this impaled state, they wriggle about for weeks together, until they have died and become dried,the collector pronouncing their tenacity of life under such circumstances to be "remarkably curious." Then there is the collector of shells, who ransacks the ends of the earth for specimens, and places friends in India and at the Antipodes under contribution. This kind of collector is very often of the female sex. The Tatler, however, mentions a remarkable male specimen of this class, citing the will of one Nicholas Gimcrack, who bequeaths to his "dear wife" one box of butterflies, one drawer of shells, a female skeleton, and a dried cockatrice;" cuts off his eldest son with "a single cockle-shell," for his undutiful behaviour in laughing at his little sister, whom his father kept preserved in spirits of wine; and bequeaths to another of his relations a collection of grasshoppers, as, in the testator's opinion, an adequate reward and acknowledgment due to his merit. Some collectors are of the miscellaneous order, and they have a maw for everything that is "curious;" these are they who chip off the corners of stones in old abbeys, cut bits of wood from Herne's oak and such like, carry away in their pocket a portion of earth from the field of Waterloo, beg for a slice from the timbers of the Royal George, and are thrown into ecstasies by possessing the night-cap in which some great murderer was hanged. They are equally pleased by a hair from the Great Khan's beard, or a boomerang from New Holland, or a Hindoo god, or a patch of Rush's trowsers, or a cast-off glove of Jenny Lind. They will treasure a nettle brought from the ruins of Persepolis, or the nose of a recumbent knight chipped off a tombstone in a cathedral. Some collectors are more systematic,-they confine themselves to special pursuits; one has bits of the ropes with which every great criminal has been hanged during the last halfcentury; another has chips from Stonehenge, from York Minster, from Westminster, from St. Peters, from the Pyramids, and from Petræa.. 66 Then there are the real antiquarian collectors, great in old coins, old armour, old spatulas, old parritch-pats," old pans, old gullies, old armlets, old fibulas, old iron of all sorts. These are generally great at reading old inscriptions, though they are sometimes deceived, like Monkbarns in the Antiquary, who, after puzzling his brains about the capital letters, "A. D. L. L." inscribed on a stone, found that after all they meant no more than "Aiken Drum's Lang Ladle." Then there are the literary collectors; one collects illuminated manuscripts; another, caricatures; a third, homilies and prayer-books; while some, like the late Duke of Sussex, confine themselves to bibles. The collection of that illustrious prince included a copy of nearly every edition of the bible that had ever been printed, in all languages. Some collect books in peculiar departments of history; for instance, the late Sir Robert Peel prided himself on his collection of rare books illustrative of Irish history, which was perhaps the finest extant. Others collect works illustrative of the Commonwealth period; and some give themselves up entirely to collecting pamphlets. The old picture collectors are a distinct class; an antique piece of smoked canvas,—all shadow and no picture, provided it is ascertained to be "genuine," and bears on it the mark of some great artist, fetches an inconceivably high price. It is not patronage of art, or love of art, which actuates picture collectors generally, but the desire to accumulate curiosities. Most of them will pass by a picture fresh from the brush of the living artist, and fix their attention on some old smoked daub. The living artist may starve, while the dead artist is "patronized," and his veriest rubbish is largely bought up. Hence many living artists find it to be their interest to paint "old pictures," and to cook them to suit the taste of the lovers of the rare and curious. The manufacture of genuine "Hobbimas," "Vanderveldes," "Wouvermans," and such like, is known to be very extensive. The autograph collector is a mighty hunter-up of curiosities; nothing will turn him aside from his pursuit, and no man is oftener voted a bore. He thinks nothing of addressing Sir Charles Napier on some point of naval reform for the purpose of securing his reply and signature, and pesters "F. M." the Duke of Wellington until he has extorted his autograph. Let a man publish a novel or a poem, and he is forthwith written to from all quarters, with the same object. If the live man can be caught hold of, he is at once solicited to write in autograph-books of collectors, or in young ladies' albums. If a man has committed a murder, his autograph is at a still higher premium; Mrs. Manning's name decorates many books, and Rush was pestered for his signature till he swore again. The Penny Post offers great facilities for this mania. If it costs only a penny to get a real live duke's signature, it is no great wonder if dukes are often written to for the purpose of securing it. The autographs of members of Parliament are not now so much thought of; generally speaking, Oxford's or the boy Jones's is more prized. The most favourite autographs for young ladies' albums are those of sentimental poets or affecting preachers; many are the autographs of the latter class that have been extorted by billets-doux. This curiously-diseased taste of the public is turned to account by those who are so fortunate as to pro cure original letters from persons whose autographs are in request. Thus, on looking over a second hand book catalogue of a month or two back, we find "private notes of Dickens and Miss Martineau offered for sale, the former at the price of 78. 6d., the latter at 3s. 6d. A MS. article by Douglas Jerrold, with his signature, is offered for 5s. A letter of Thomas Hood for 5s., and a short note of Thomas Moore for the same money. A letter from Robert Nicoll, the Scotch poet, to William Lovett, is offered at 4s. 6d. ; and one from Samuel Rogers to Thomas Miller, the basket-maker, is priced 5s. Robert Burns's autograph fetches a high price; a sheet from his account-book of Excise entries, signed by his name, together with some notes from his sons, being offered at £2. 2s.; and a collection of royal autographs, of Her Majesty, Prince Albert, and others, is offered for £2. 10s. It is certainly worth the while of Joseph Ady, or any other clever correspondent, to obtain letters and private notes from distinguished personages, and then offer them for sale through the second-hand bookseller. There are collectors in numerous other departments, so numerous that they could scarcely be recited within a moderate compass. There are florists who collect *auriculas, others Cape heaths, and others tulips, while some are famous for their collections of leeks, cabbages, or artichokes. We have even known a collector of keys,-keys of celebrated gaols, castles, dungeons, scrutoires, pigeon-houses, house-doors, and old iron safes. One man collects and pastes into a book all his tavern-bills for half a century; another collects old bones and pottery, dug out of antique barrows. Collectors of seals rival the collectors of autographs in ubiquity. The wine collector stores up in his cellar specimens of innumerable vintages, and several bishops of the Church pride themselves on their collection of beer. The stock of the late Archbishop of York was considered the most complete in the kingdom, and fetched a very high price at his death. But perhaps the most odd collector of all, was the noble earl who died lately, leaving behind him a collection of snuffs, worth upwards of a thousand pounds! In There are also national tastes for collection. Thus the German collects pipes, the Scotchman snuffboxes, the Englishman bank-notes, and the Frenchman specimen journals of the revolutionary era. Italy and Spain they collect bits of the true cross, and remnants of other sacred objects from Palestine. In the United States they collect the old furniture and bibles of the Puritan fathers. In Ireland they collect old pikes of the year '98. The inveterate and enthusiastic collector is a man whose honesty is to be suspected. The collector of engravings sometimes leaves an ugly gap in a valuable book, and the collector of old manuscripts not unfrequently leaves a hole in the shelves of a public library which cannot be filled up. The collector overleaps all obstacles in his way; what would he not do to get at a Queen Anne's farthing? No stone coffin of defunct Saxon is secure against his intrusive pickaxe; no church-spire is so lofty but he will scale it, no river so deep but he will gravel it, no wall so thick but he will penetrate it, no place so sacred but he will explore it. He grabs letters, skewers moths, pockets Roman tiles, carries off old bones, mutilates books, and apprehends engravings, with consummate nonchalance. He wants this, that, and the other thing for his collection. What is conscience to him? Is there not his scrapbook and his dead-house to be filled? For these reasons we suspect the curiosity-collector, believing him to be a person of loose moral notions, and not at all to be trusted. GIOACCHINO ROSSINI, His "IL GRAND MAESTRO," or, at least, his beautiful music, has been the theme of so much praise and eulogy in this country, that we may fairly rank him as one of the most exalted geniuses of the age. prolific mind has given to the world a library of music, abounding in delightful melodies. The more they are heard, the more pleasure they impart, and their sounds will linger on the ear, and only cease to vibrate with the end of Time. It has been the custom of the world in by-gone ages, to neglect, while living, the most extraordinarily-gifted men; however, we believe that with Rossini, this is a rare exception. There is no musician of modern times whose operas have been received with more enthusiasm by the whole of Europe, or one who has been more liberally rewarded for his splendid works, than the subject of our memoir. Gioacchino Rossini, this deservedly celebrated composer, was born on the 29th of February, 1792, at Pesaro, a pretty little town in the Papal States, on the Gulf of Venice. His father (it is said, of Hebrew extraction) was a performer on the French horn, not of very high standing, as his living depended wholly upon engagements obtained at the fairs of Sinigaglia, Fermo, Forli, and other little towns in Romagna and its neighbourhood, where he formed one of the impromptu orchestras which are collected for the operas. The mother of Rossini, who had been a very handsome woman, was a tolerable "second donna ;" they went from town to town, and from company to company, the husband playing in the orchestra, the wife singing on the stage,-poor, of course, but merry as grigs. Rossini, their son, "covered with glory," with a name which resounded throughout Europe, faithful to his paternal poverty, had not laid by for his whole stock, when he went to Vienna, a sum equal to the weekly salary of one of the prima donnas of the London Italian Opera. Living was cheap enough at Pesaro, and though his family subsisted on very uncertain means, they were never sorrowful or discontented, and above all, "cared little for the In 1799, Rossini's parents took him to Bologna; but he did not begin to study music until 1804, when he was twelve years of age. In Italy, musical tuition is to be obtained at a very low rate; his father therefore endeavoured to place him under D. Angelo Tesei, a professor, and our young student in a very short time made such strides in the science, that he was engaged in the choir, where his fine voice, handsome countenance, together with the cheerfulness of his youthful manners, rendered him a very welcome auxiliary to the priests who directed the Funzioni. Under the tuition of his able master, he continued to improve in the art, and in the year 1816 he was capable of singing any piece of music at sight, could accompany himself on the piano-forte, and had gained a fair knowledge of counterpoint. He now began to give promise of superior talent; the exquisite quality, power, and sweetness of his voice, combined with his outward demeanour, determined at once the course he was to pursue,- that is, in a few years, to come out as first-tenor. Rossini now quitted Bologna to undertake a musical tour in Romagna. He presided at the piano-forte, as leader of the orchestra, at some of the smaller towns, and in 1807 entered the Lyceum at Bologna, and studied for a time under Father Stanislao Matteo. In a year after, he composed a cantata entitled Il Piano d'Armenia; this was his first production of vocal music, and for which he was immediately elected a director of the Academy of Concordi. From Bologna he went to Venice, and in 1810 he composed for the theatre San Mose, a petite opera in one act, called La Cambiale de Matrimonio. Returning to Bologna in the autumn of the following year, he prepared L'Equivoco Stravagante, for representation. Afterwards, revisiting Venice, he produced for the Carnival of 1812, L'Inganno Felice. An experienced ear, acquainted with this opera, will often recognize many morceaux, that were introduced in a more matured state in his after productions. At the Carnival of Venice, in 1813, the great master produced his Tancredi. This delightful piece was so successful, that it created a kind of musical furore, from the gondolier to the nobleman. In the very courts of law the judges were obliged to impose silence on the persons present, who were singing “Ti rivedro mi rivedrai." The dilettanti were all in raptures, and declared that another Cimarosa had revisited their region. So popular was this charming opera, that in the course of four years it made the tour of Europe. No one can doubt, with such a disposition as Rossini possessed, living in such a place as Venice, where he was idolized, that he was as happy a man as he was celebrated as a composer. In the autumn of 1812 he completed his twentyfirst year. At this time he was engaged to compose for the Theatre La Scala, at Milan, La Pietra del Paragone, considered his chef-d'œuvre in the buffa style. We believe this opera has never been introduced in this country. After immense success, Rossini revisited Pesaro and his mother, to whom he was passionately attached. During his absence, his only correspondent had been his mother; his letters were addressed, "To the most honoured Madame Rossini, Mother of the celebrated Composer in Bologna." Such is the character of this extraordinary man; half serious, half laughing. Happy in his genius, amidst the most susceptible people in the world, intoxicated with praise from his very infancy, he feels conscious of his own glory, and "does not see why Rossini should not naturally hold the same rank as a general of the army, or a minister of state. The latter has drawn a great prize in the lottery of ambition; Rossini has drawn a great prize in the lottery of Nature." The preceding phrase is his own. The hypercritics of Bologna charged Rossini with transgressing the rules of composition; he did not dispute the accusation," I should not have so many faults to reproach myself with," said he, "if I were to read my manuscripts twice over; but you know that I have scarcely six weeks given me to compose an opera. During the first month I amuse myself. And pray, when would you have me amuse myself, if not at my present age, and with my present success? or, would you have me wait until I am old and full of spleen? The last fortnight comes, however; every morning I write a duet or an air, which is rehearsed in the evening. How then is it possible that I can perceive an error in the accompaniments?" The accusation was repeated in Paris, by M. Berton, of the Institute, who drew a comparison between Rossini and Mozart, disadvantageous to the former. This produced a very animated reply from M. de Stendhal, and a furious paper war was the consequence. From Bologna, our now Great Master was engaged to visit all the towns in Italy, where there was a theatre. He composed five or six operas in a year, for each of which he received eight hundred or a thousand francs, about forty pounds English money. The difficulties with which he had to struggle in combating with the caprices of the different singers, were numerous; but this is invariably the case with performers, and must prove a source of annoyance to the author. No man suffered more from the conceit and whims of singers, than did the illustrious Handel, which the following anecdote, we are induced here to insert, will verify. The very simple and well-known air, "Verdi Prati," in Alcina, which was constantly encored, was at first sent back to Handel, by Carestine, as too trifling for him to sing. Upon which, he exclaimed, "Vat! he refuses, tose he?" and in a towering rage went off in haste to his lodgings, and with a tone and gesture in which few composers except Handel ever ventured to accost a first-rate singer, cried out, in his usual curious dialect, and with his accustomed impetuosity, "You tog, you!-tont I know petter as yourseluf vaat is pest for you to sing? If you vil not sing all de song vaat I kive you, I vil not pay you un stiver." On another occasion, this great composer was annoyed by the celebrated soprano, Currioni, insolently refusing to sing his admirable air, "Falsa Imagini,' in Otho. "Ah, ah! vaat, yer vont sing it,eh!" ejaculated Handel at the top of his voice, which was not the most pleasing. "You vont, eh? I always know you vas a very tievel; but I vil let you know dat I am Peelzepup, de prince of de tievils." He then, in a rage, took the prima donna up in his arms, and declared that, if she did not immediately comply with his orders, he would throw her out of the window. It is unnecessary to observe, that his orders were obeyed, and that the piece mentioned became the greatest favourite in the opera. The facility with which Rossini composed was astonishing, but to listen to the rehearsals of his compositions appeared to give him pain. On every occasion, the performance of a new opera superseded, for the time, every other occupation on the part of the inhabitants. At the commencement of the overture, a pin might be heard to drop; when it had finished, the most tremendous hubbub ensued. It was either praised to the skies, or hissed without mercy. The same excitement took place after every air. It is only in Italy that this rapturous, and almost exclusive admiration of music, exists. About the year 1814, the fame of Rossini reached Naples, the inhabitants of which, with commendable self-complacency, were astonished that there should be a great composer in the world who was not a Neapolitan. Rossini was engaged to produce for the Neapolitan theatres two operas a year, for several years. The labour was immense, but he performed it laughingly, and ridiculed everybody, which caused him many enemies, of whom, the most incensed was M. Barbaga, the manager with whom he had engaged, and to whom he paid the uncivil trick of marrying his mistress. Rossini commenced at Naples towards the end of 1815, in the most brilliant manner, with Elizabetta, Regina d'Inghilterra,-a serious opera; but, to comprehend the success of our young composer, it is necessary to go a little further back. King Ferdinand had languished for nine years in Sicily, amidst a people who were continually talking to him of parliaments, finances, the balance of power, "and other absurdities," at last he arrived at Naples, and behold! one of the most beautiful features of his beloved city, that which, during his absence, embittered most his regrets, the magnificent theatre of San Carlo, is burnt down in a night. The loss of a kingdom, or half a dozen battles, would not have affected him so much. In the midst of his despair, M. Barbaga said to him, "Sire, in nine months I will rebuild the immense edifice, which the flames have just devoured, and it shall be more beautiful than it was yesterday." He kept his word. From that moment, M. Barbaga became the first man in the kingdom. He was the protector of Signora Colebrand, his first singer, who laughed at him all day, completely ruling, and consequently commanding every one about the theatre just as she thought proper. Signora Colebrand afterwards became Madame Rossini, and was, from 1806 to 1815, one of the finest sopranos in Europe. In 1816, her voice began to fail, her intonation became imperfect, but no one dared to say so in Naples, and from 1816 to 1821, they (the audience) were obliged to be thus nightly annoyed in this their principal pleasure, without venturing to complain. When Rossini first arrived at Naples, anxious to succeed, he employed all his art to please the prima donna, who entirely governed the director, Barbaga. Her voice was not pathetic, but was magnificent, like her person. Rossini adopted the best means of enabling her to display it to the greatest advantage. After the brilliant success of Elizabetta, Rossini went to Rome, and at the Carnival of 1816, produced Torvoldo e Dorliska, and afterwards, his chef-d'œuvre, Il Barbier de Siviglia. He then went to Naples, and produced La Gazetta, and after, Otello. then returned to Rome for La Cenerentola, and to Milan for La Gazza Ladra. He In 1817, Rossini, elated with the success his Cenerentola had met with at Rome, returned to Milan, not a little anxious to see how the Milanese would receive him, he who, notwithstanding all their entreaties, had left, to lavish on another spot the rich productions of his genius. To make some sort of compensation, it was necessary he should do something extraordinary. He composed La Gazza Ladra. This splendid opera was soon completed, the several characters studied, and, singular to say, each performer was pleased with his part, and sure of success; the bills were posted, and Rossini was preparing to take his seat in the orchestra, when one of his friends rushed into the room, his countenance bespeaking despair: "Eh bon Dieu! What is the matter?" cried the Maestro. "Oh, my dear Rossini! It is cruel to think of-" "What is it you mean? Do speak out." "Well then, I have just been informed that a party are coming to the theatre to hiss! Yes! actually to hiss your opera,-and such music, too! My dear friend, there is a plot against you,-your composition is to be hooted from the stage." "Indeed! said Rossini. "I am sorry to hear that." In fact, he knew the party he had to contend with, and therefore, without further delay, he determined at once to meet the "coming storm." He entered the orchestra with his usual nonchalance, and took his seat at the piano-forte. A buzz, that from its loudness seemed to portend no good, ran through the house. Rossini cast his eyes round the pit, and fancied he saw his "friends," with their mouths screwed up, preparing to utter those abominable sounds borrowed from the serpent,-sounds of "dire importance to ears polite, and more particularly to those of an author. " However, make a beginning he must. The overture commenced, and the performers executed it in a masterly style. The beautiful march of which the first part consists, was listened to with silence; then followed the Allegro. Rossini, whose heart now beat high with anxiety, was alive to every little sound; his flurried imagination led him to construe every whisper into a hiss. At length the overture was finished. The chorus was sung. The storm which was gathering, and still looked lowering, had not yet burst forth, when Ninetta entered, tripping |